Tôi được yêu cầu làm thơ về quê nhà dẫu tôi chẳng phải là thi sĩ I’ve been asked to write a poem about home but I’m not a poet

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Tôi được yêu cầu làm thơ về quê nhà dẫu tôi chẳng phải là thi sĩ

Quê nhà là sao? Thơ là thế nào?

So sánh ánh trăng như cát có biến lời nhăng cuội thành thơ?

Một bài dân ca bèo dạt có biến một chốn thành nhà?

Vậy mà giờ, mây lấp trăng như tà áo vương phi trùm giấc mộng,

và chỉ nghe tiếng karaoke khò khè như tắc kè viêm phổi

làm sao để viết thơ, nói gì thơ về quê hương đất nước?

“Lòng yêu nước là lòng yêu những gì tầm thường nhất:

yêu cái cây trồng ở trước nhà, yêu con phố nhỏ đổ ra bờ sông…”*

Chẳng có cây trước nhà tôi, con sông gần bên thì tối như ác mộng.

Tôi có yêu nơi đây như ta nên yêu chốn quê nhà?

Tôi không biết. Tôi thậm chí không biết nó có đủ thơ để làm thơ.

Đó có thể chẳng phải một bài thơ.

Nhưng tôi biết đó là nhà.

*Ilya Ehrenburg

I’ve been asked to write a poem about home but I’m not a poet

What is a homeland? What is a poem?

Does comparing the moonlight to sand transform slippery words into poetry?

Does a folk song of drifting water lettuce transform a place into a home?

Yet now clouds hide the moon like a royal robe draped over a dream,

no sound but the karaoke wheeze of a gecko with a pulmonary infection.

How to write poetry, let alone about the motherland?

The love of one’s country is the love of the most mundane things:

Loving the tree in front of your house, the small street that leads to the river…

There’s no tree in front of my house, and the river is a muddy nightmare.

Do I love this place like one loves one’s homeland?

I don’t know. I don’t know if it has enough poetry in it to make a poem.

It might not even be a poem.

But I know it’s home.

I’ve been asked to write a poem about home although I’m not a poet

What is home? What is poetry?

Does comparing the moonlight to sand change the unfaithful words into poetry?

Does a folk song of drifting water-lettuce change a place into home?

Yet, now the clouds hide the moon like a royal robe covering the dream,

And I only hear karaoke sound wheezing like a gecko with pulmonary infection

How does one write poetry, let alone that which is of the home country?

“The love of one’s country is the love of the most mundane things:

Loving the tree in front of your house, the small street that leads to the river…”*

There’s no tree in front of my house, and the nearby river looks like a nightmare at night.

Do I love this place like one loves the birthplace?

I don’t know. I don’t even know if it’s sufficient to write a poem.

It might not even be a poem.

But I know it’s home.

*Ilya Ehrenburg

Original Poem by

Hiền Trang

Translated by

Phương Anh Nguyen with Vietnamese Community Workshops Language

Vietnamese

Country

Vietnam

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Tôi được yêu cầu làm thơ về quê nhà dẫu tôi chẳng phải là thi sĩ I’ve been asked to write a poem about home but I’m not a poet